Running Free
by rune101
Summary: John was born into great responsibility and as a young boy even betrothed to a likewise young Sherlock. He never asked to carry the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders - never wanted to be a king. Perhaps Sherlock will provide the turn over he so desperately craves. Johnlock. AU.


Disclaimer~ I neither own nor claim to own the characters herein; they belong to their respective copyright holder(s).

A/N:: This is my first shot at Johnlock, so please give your support in the form of reviews. It's rated M simply for convenience; instead of me rating it T while they're young and then later bumping up the rating. Enjoy~

* * *

"Head Prince Mycroft wishes to see you," a nameless and just as faceless guard spoke with an unchanging voice. "He will be in the library." and with that the man disappeared, armor clinking behind him with each step.

A four year old Sherlock sighed heavily. He was quite busy mixing his nanny's cooking ingredients - all in the name of progressive science. So far he had documented minor changes, but last month's discoveries had been prolific; had burned off his eyebrows even. Though to the relief of the maid who had been charged with watching him that day, they had grown back.

Grabbing the book he had so thoroughly been studying, Sherlock leaped up and quickly made his way through the halls, running past disgruntled maids and dodging between others who were filling menial tasks that even in his childhood he deemed well, quite frankly boring. He entered the library loudly enough, announcing his presence for his brother who looked up at from his own book with a turned up nose of displeasure. "Mum and Dad would not like to see you behaving so. Think of the kingdom."

The kingdom this and the kingdom that; Sherlock sneered. For all his grown up mannerisms and concerns, Mycroft was only seven - three years older than Sherlock himself. "I did not come here for a lecture."

"Well you are getting one," Mycroft retorted smoothly. "As it has been, Mum and Dad have been away on important trips. Trips regarding the safety of our great nation. They are returning however-"

"Really?" Sherlock practically screamed out in joy. He missed the way his mum would stroke his hair when he was feeling sick, missed the way she would tuck his covers snugly under his bed and missed her mere presence. Sometimes it was a thing quite often forgotten, but Sherlock was indeed only a child. He missed his father only by duty because as his son he was required to miss him. His father always looked on him with some quiet measure of disappointment though. Unlike Mycroft be wasn't interested in the state of the kingdom's affairs. He also was not the eldest son, and as such would not one day take over the Holmes Kingdom. He honestly knew not what his future would bring.

"Yes, really. But there's more." When Sherlock made to interrupt him, he held up a silencing hand. "Father has talked of...your betrothal to Prince Watson. He has arranged the meeting to take place next month. Hopefully you...acclimate." Mycroft's voice was unsteady and his small hand was shaking. His younger brother was to be married off to a rich suitor as swiftly as possible. This happened all the time - it was a common thing among nobles where the throne was concerned; it expanded territories, joined alliances, improved trade and commerce, but all that rational was not enough to get past the fact that Sherlock was his younger brother.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Marriage?" he asked softly. "Like Mum and Dad, right?"

Mycroft looked away. "Yes. Exactly." The exact kind of loveless marriage produced by the all consuming importance of status and wealth. They did not love each other. They tolerated each other.

"Then if I may be forward," Mycroft held back a 'you always are', "I am most excited." Mycroft was slightly taken aback. He had expected Sherlock to protest relentlessly. But he did not. If he were alone he would have weeped for Sherlock's beaten spirit. He knew that Sherlock really just wanted Father to be pleased with him.

"G-great. That is...wonderful Sherlock." his younger brother stared at him for a few moments before nodding slowly.

"That it is Mycroft." Truth be told Sherlock was afflicted with equal parts anticipation and fear. He really truly wanted to be away from the castle - to be away from this land. He had no rightful place in it; not like Mycroft did. And besides, it was an adventure because his mind was filled with the romanticisms that his various nannies had inadvertently bestowed upon him. Something of intriguing princes with gleaming dress and moral principles to spare. Something of everlasting peace and happiness that could not be combated with even the worst bearings of news.

However all of that sounded like jaded fairytales, and Sherlock liked to go off of what he saw rather than what he heard from others. Because no one was as reliable as he himself was.

He heard rather than saw his parents arrive. The whole ordeal was showy as per usual, though he guessed the theatrics grated on both his mum and dad's nerves. Maids lined the entryway creating a laiden path. Beside them servants and other hands waited for their services to be needed. All his parents did was proceed up the walkway. They stopped just above the stairs and Sherlock took advantage of the moment to perfectly obscure himself from their sight.

"-at least consider it." Sherlock only caught the last half of what his father had said.

"I will not. I am immovable on the subject." his mum nearly shouted.

"All I am proposing is to keep Sherlock's options open. And what is wrong with that House?"

"I will not have Sherlock marry a war monger. What is he to do in times of peace? Live like a beggar? Starve? Their House is only profitable in war. That is too dangerous."

They separated with further heated words, his father going to his study, his mother to the outer gardens. Sherlock waited a moment more then descended the stairs, following his mum. He found her standing among a sea of mixed roses - some white, some yellow, most of them red. Her finger paused against a petal. "Sherlock."

Sherlock stepped forward feeling slightly caught. He knew it was those annoying dress shoes of his that gave him away. It crunched loudly against the surrounding nature - even moreso against the fallen twigs.

"I take it this to mean you heard our...discussion?" she paused, gesturing between herself and the castle.

Sherlock nodded eagerly. "I did."

His mum smiled, albeit only a fraction of her usual mirth driven one. "Would you like to see the pictures?"

"Yes! I wanna' pick," Sherlock said in a way that was so full of self importance that she was reminded of his young age, not that she needed the reminder.

Sherlock pulled the pictures from his mum's hands and initially glanced through the suitors quickly. In all of the pictures the boys were dressed similarly to Sherlock when his mum was hosting some kind of high class event that entailed stuffy proper clothes and politeness beyond what Sherlock's patience could bear regarding niceties.

The first was a brunet with dark brown hair and equally dark eyes. He had his arms crossed and was dressed in fine clothes - not fine enough to be royalty, but fine enough to be of society's upper class. Below the name Lestrade was scribbled in with neat cursive that he instantly recognized as his father's. He went on to the next one. The next was of a boy standing proudly among war materials. His hair was black and his eyes burned intriguingly. His uniform was neither rich nor poor - it as a small version of a certain military nation's dress and the boy looked proud to wear it. The name said Moriarty.

Sherlock's mum snatched the photo from him once she recognized it and ripped it in twine. "Do not count that one dear Sherlock," she explained, voice strained. But she left no room for argument. So Sherlock continued on.

The next was of a blond haired boy with bright blue eyes. He was smiling just as bright as his eyes were, his smile goofy if only because of the two missing front teeth. Unlike the previous two, either he was photogenic or excited to take a picture for his soon-to-be betrothed. Sherlock studied the photo more. His clothes were certainly that of royalty, so he was well off to say the least. His house name read Watson.

"You like him?" Sherlock's mum asked hopefully.

"I do not know him, how can I like him?"

She sighed. "Sometimes you don't have to well acquaint yourself to someone to like them."

Sherlock seemed to absorb her wisdom as he turned the picture over in his hands, then went on to the next. He read the name before he saw the person. The name read Anderson and nothing of his features did much in lieu of keeping his attention. His face was plain but not unattractive, his smile was forced and his dress placed him as a son of one of the Council. Not that Sherlock cared about any of that. He was only four after all. All he cared for was that he looked boring and Sherlock had a certain insurmountable disdain for things of a particularly uninteresting nature.

"What do you think?" his mum asked.

"Hm...maybe," Sherlock replied, handing the pictures he had already looked at back to her. She pushed the photos back into his hand and shook her head.

"No, you keep them." she gently prodded him, "there's more."

"What more could there be to see? Can I look later Mummy, I want to do something else." He was hit with an awfully pointed look and gave up on complaints.

The next was a boy who was less of a boy and more of a teenager. He was thirteen, quite close to his sixteenth year, and wore lenses. His hair was brown and Sherlock was amazed. He was a teenager. A real live _actual _teenager. Whenever there were older guests at parties and other gatherings of that nature, Sherlock was herded into a room away from the older boys so he could not 'disturb the peace' or make some other missteps that were innate of his lack of years. "I want to meet him."

His mum chuckled. "He is quite a bit older. Are you sure you're not just trying to get in with the big boys early?"

Sherlock didn't say anything immediately, weighing the consequences of telling the truth - a simple "yes" - or a making something up. "I will make a decision later." he said nonchalantly.

"Okay then. Do that. Now, who would like some sweet bread?"

"I would! Mycroft doesn't want his." she chuckled, brushing Sherlock's curls out of his eyes.

* * *

John was sleeping face first on the couch cushions, snoring slightly. He had escaped for a few hours only to have Harry tattle on him, saying he was out and about running amok in the market streets. He had been having fun exploring. And then his dad had called for him and he wasn't there. Apparently it was some business to do with betrothal. He was seven and only interested in playing in the dirt and waving bugs in poor maidens' faces. He had tried waving them in Harry's face but she had no fear of them, unlike most of the upper class girls.

Evidently though it was not the place of a high born to do such things that were deemed peasantry. He was supposed to stay indoors so his skin wouldn't be tanned by the sun like the working class, supposed to only give the time of day to the other members of the upper class. He was also supposed to be a proper gentleman but his tutor claimed that his manners had hardly improved, if at all.

"Get up," Harry said, arms crossed. She was tall in comparison, eleven, and her blonde hair was cut short in the back and longer towards the front. She was frowning because she had been made to wear a dress, an article of clothing she loathed. Supposedly the Holmes were to be arriving shortly and everyone was to leave a good impression. Their dad had some sort of personal investment in joining their separate kingdoms.

John had received a picture of his betrothed in the post but he had not once glanced at it, throwing it somewhere in his room at the time because he had instead chosen to beg his mom to take him to the theater. In lieu of his request she had taken him to the opera with her circle of friends and they had spent the evening in whispering, giggling, and in awe at the range of the singers' voices. John had spent the evening sighing exaggeratedly and whining, but to no avail; he had to sit through it until the joyous end came.

So he had no idea what this Sherlock Holmes looked like.

"Sirs, madams, they are here," a maid rushed in and said quickly, quite out of breath. As soon as her words were acknowledged with Misses Watson fixing her hair and smoothing her dress as well as Mister Watson clearing his throat, she moved off to the side.

The tension hung so thickly in the air that it was palpable, and John waited...and waited, and waited. He looked over to the sun dial near the window, pretending he could read it. He had never paid particular attention to those lessons. Maybe they had a purpose after all? Especially because his parents were blocking his view of their conventional grandfather clock. Harry was itching her leg through the fabric of her dress' skirts impatiently.

Then he saw them coming up the staircase. Misses Holmes, he assumed, kept asking a boy if he wanted her to carry him up the stairs but the curly haired boy repeatedly declined, struggling to ascend each stair at a time by himself. Behind the pair stood a stoic older man with a boy his age who had straight hair as opposed to the younger's curly.

"Thank you for going to the trouble to venture all the way here," Misses Watson said with a practiced smile. Misses Holmes returned the gesture and the two men shook hands.

John stepped up to Sherlock and pulled him into a hug. He was a tad taller, but not by much - he had a jet black parasol in his hand, and had previously been twirling it.

Everyone seemed to be holding their breaths so John thought he ought to - was expected to - do something far bolder than give his betrothed a hug. He kissed him, straight on the lips.

In retrospect it was quick and very un-fairytale like, but Misses Holmes looked like her jaw was in peril of dislocating. "John," his own mom started, hand to her mouth.

While the older male Holmes and Watson weren't as outwardly shocked, they weren't congratulating him either. Did he do something wrong? John looked to Sherlock whom his arms were still around and his eyes were slightly widened. "Sherlock...?"

"I'm Sherlock!" the curly haired boy with the pale eyes yelled. He was furious, his betrothed had confused him for Mycroft. _Mycroft_.

John blinked and looked back to the boy whose his arms were still yet around. "Mycroft Holmes...a pleasure?" the boy asked rather than stated.

John instantly took a step back, apologized, then hid behind Harry's skirts in shame.

Mister Holmes looked at John and he further cowered. But the man then smiled. "It was a simple mix up, you haven't met each other after all, now go play you three." With that Mister Holmes took up conversation with Mister Watson and the two women did the same - a pleasant mingling of kings and queens, business and like situations to discuss.

A maid directed them to a similarly decorated sitting room and left with instructions to holler if anything was needed. Sherlock - the actual Sherlock this time - pouted and muttered something about John's complete and utter incompetence.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know..." John trailed off. He looked toward Sherlock but the curly haired boy was still having a fit, glaring openly at him.

"It is quite alright. Mum and Dad weren't perturbed, nothing but an antsy Sherlock. It was probably the long carriage ride that set him off initially."

John was grateful for how civil Mycroft was being and nodded. "Wait...Mum and Dad, don't you mean _Mom _and Dad?"

"No, Mum and Dad. I believe it is a slight difference in language between our kingdoms."

"Ah, okay. That's why you sound like that...so cool!"

Sherlock was already irritated about them talking about himself in front of him. John had gone on to start joking and Mycroft had laughed - had actually, genuinely laughed, and Sherlock realized how out of place he felt. He felt miserable. This was his betrothed - his, not Mycroft's. Yet John hadn't said a word to him past a half hearted apology. He seemed more interested in Mycroft. That particular detail was especially infuriating. Was it not enough for Mycroft to inherit the throne? Now he wanted Sherlock's betrothed enamored with him as well?

So Sherlock did the only thing he could think to do. He broke down and cried, loudly sobbing and getting their attention instantly.

"Is he okay?" John asked worried.

"Yeah, he is fine I should think." Mycroft replied.

John went to Sherlock and put his arms around the boy's shoulder, "Hey, no need to cry, it's okay." John wasn't very good at consoling, Sherlock thought but victoriously stuck his tongue out at Mycroft because John was paying attention to him now. Mycroft rolled his eyes and mouthed 'baby' with a taunting expression. Sherlock smirked.

"Hey, Sherlock are you tired?" John asked.

"No, I'm not tired," the boy vehemently denied. He didn't want them trying to get rid of him. His eyelids were feeling heavy though. And so was his head. Okay, maybe he was tired after all.

Minutes later he was drifting off on John's shoulder. The blond carried him to his bed and he and Mycroft continued talking.

"I think you're a great suitor - I mean you'll be a good suitor to Sherlock."

John smiled his missing front teeth on display. "Thanks Mycroft."

"No problem. Now I'm going to get back, he gestured towards the door, "I believe you two need time to get acquainted after he awakes." John nodded, then waved goodbye. He was starting to feel tired himself.

* * *

When Sherlock awoke he panicked slightly, not seeing Mycroft. He turned around on the bed that was certainly not his own and came nose to nose with John who was lightly sleeping and awoke because of the movement.

"Everything okay?" John asked, groggy.

"Quite." Sherlock replied tersely. They both got up and joined Mycroft in the sitting room with their respective parents.

"Ah, there they are," John's mother gushed, embarrassingly pinching his cheeks and mussing up his hair. John walked away soon after and joined Harry on the couch. She was sat very lady like, legs crossed and such. John stifled a laugh when he saw her leg twitch. She usually sat much the opposite, legs open like a man and a slouching posture.

"Ah Sherlock, John, we were just talking about Mycroft's own engagement," Mister Holmes cut in, gesturing to his first born.

"And with whom would that be?" John asked politely.

"Why, with your very own sister." The man looked like Sherlock - thin face, pale eyes that were not quite one or other color. Only his locks were the difference, straight and fine like Mycroft's.

"My _sister_!" John outburst, then covered his mouth for speaking out of turn. He looked over to Harry but she turned her face away, hiding her expression.

"A-as a matter of course we are only talking of such things right now. First and foremost is Mycroft's studies, then what comes thereafter will be what's best for the kingdom." Misses Holmes said, recovering the mood of the room's inhabitants. John blew a breath of relief. There was no way Harry was ruler of a nation material. She was beautiful, but her demeanor - a strong rebellious woman who too oft spoke her mind was off putting to many suitors. Their parents had been trying to get her engaged since she was his age but her boyish qualities led most to say she lacked refinement - something that all noblewomen were required to have. It was just societal standard.

"But it's still a possibility, right?" John could tell how badly his mom wanted this to go through. She was nearly pleading.

"Of course." Mister Holmes replied suavely.

"I fear any further relation to you," Sherlock whispered so only Mycroft could hear. If Harriet and Mycroft were to wed, and John and he were to wed, then Mycroft, already his brother would then be his brother as well as his brother-in-law and Harriet, his then sister-in-law would become his sister-in-law twice? And Mycroft would then be John's brother-in-law twice as well? Sherlock shook his head.

"The feeling is mutual." Mycroft bit back.

* * *

Hours more of talk of trade between the adults and Sherlock and Mycroft left in their carriage. John's mom was pacing the room, frantic and talking so quickly that John could barely make out the words. "Have to...imperative...must be...married." He gathered that it had to do with Harry then. When he turned around his sister was right behind him, listening just as intently. She held a single index finger to her lips in motion to be quiet and they creeped past he door and slipped past the maids and outside.

"I do not see reason in all this talk of marriage. Must marry this and have no other options but to marry that. What is the point of it all?" Harry said frowning, throwing an uppercut to an imagined enemy.

John got the feeling that the question wasn't addressed at him, rather that she was thinking out loud, but he answered regardless. "To keep wealth within the family name, to ensure you and your heirs a good, comfortable life. A life free of needs and wants." After he had said it aloud he realized those words weren't his, rather that they were the commonplace ideals of the aristocracy.

"Yeah, yeah," Harry sighed, climbing up a grassy hill, "rest assured I have heard all of that before, many times over." Harry removed her dress in one pull and John looked away for deceny's sake; if she would have no embarrassment, then he would in her stead. She balled it up and threw it to John who caught it reflexively. Now she was in trousers and an undershirt, certainly not attire for a lady of any other class than peasantry.

"Hey! What am I to do with this? And why do I have to carry your dress? It's yours!" John protested.

Harry rolled her eyes and tugged on his shirt. "Now your turn."

"What - why?"

"Do you want Mom to go ill from worry after she sees stains on our new dress clothes? And it would take the maid hours to scrub the grass stains from them. That certainly won't be gaining us any favors from them."

John conceded but turned his back. "Don't look!"

"Awh, John is shy? Just like a rosen cheeked maiden."

"Am not!" John said, turning around so fast he became dizzy and throwing off his clothes as if they were putrid. Of course today of all days he had, in his haste and as a result of waking up late, foregone his undershirt and chosen thin shorts.

Harry laughed but trudged on ahead. They hid theirs clothes behind the nearly ancient statues of the original King Watson and his wife. They were headed to the top of Sunrose cliff, an area deemed offlimits by their parents. The grassy area had a bunch of wildflowers native to this area and this area alone. Below the cliff was a long drop, a roaring ocean with dangerously pointed rocks.

"Do you know the story John? Of how they died?"

"Of whom do you speak?"

"Don't be dense, the originals - the first king and queen of our nation." Harry was looking out into the ocean.

"Yeah, the queen died early from illness, she was quite young and only bore one heir. The King remarried and his next wife bore one heir likewise. She died in labor of the second, which was born without breath. The king went mad they say."

"Indeed. What a romantic tale, is it not?" Harry scoffed.

"I suppose so." John said, making a disbelieving face and feeling the wind across his back.

"Do you think we'll be like that?"

"I certainly hope not, I plan to keep my wits more or less about me." John laughed.

Harry laughed too but shook her head. "That's not what I mean. I mean do you think that we'll be just like them, our life stories recited as a matter of course, our every moves carefully scrutinized? Will we become more like stories than people..." she trailed off.

"Harriet Watson, I do believe you are indeed a _woman_," John said with a laugh.

"What?" Harry asked in surprise.

"You seem to have the ingrained idea that I know what you are thinking without you having to say it directly." As soon as Harry caught on she slapped John's arm none too gently. "But you sure don't hit like a woman." he earned another slap for that. "_Ow!"_

"John compose yourself," Harry warned.

"I am composed, you see I'm not the one poised to give broken bones, I am on the unfortunate receiving end."

"I hope after your rule they speak of how foolish you were, even I will contribute to that effect." she stated with a mock serious tone. "Joking aside, how do we avoid such a fate?"

John paused, "Only you know the answer to your own thoughts." he was just mimicking their mom but Harry seemed to take his words to heart. She pulled out a crown, one of the flowers exclusive to this place and squeezed its stem before throwing in into the ocean below.

John watched the flower flitting this way and that before it hit the ocean and slowly sank as moving currents pulled it down.

"I have got it! An adventure!"

"An adventure?" John repeated, confused.

"Yes. That is what I have been yearning for. No lessons from overused texts, no politics, no thinking of my kingdom's reputation with every public move I make - what I do, say, or wear, no required attachment, no stuffy sitting rooms or ridiculous niceties or uncomfortable attire - freedom, John. I want freedom."

John was floored by his sister's passionate words but soonafter came to realize what she was getting at. "We cannot run away, Harry!"

"Correction," her face grew staid, "you, John Hamish Watson, future king of our nation cannot run away. I, your sister and a subsequent burden until my marriage to a wealthy likewise respected suitor, can."

"But you can't - you can't leave me alone! I never wanted to become king anyways. I can't, I wasn't-" and then John broke down in tears.

"They would never forgive me if I dragged you along into this. You are our future king. I have my own way to go, as do you." Regardless of her words she put her arms around her younger brother and rubbed his back. He cried and hiccuped into her neck.

* * *

"Finally, home at last," Sherlock dove into his bed and glanced lovingly at the mix of spices and vinegar in his viles.

He had the other pictures stowed away in a drawer and John's in his pocket. He stared at it. "John..." and then he put it on his dresser and began playing with his puppets.

Later, when he was called down to dinner and at the table his mum asked him how he felt about his prospective engagement to John. He said he rather liked it; there was something about John that was keenly interesting and he simply had to find out what.

"Well try to put the experience out of your mind for a small while, you still have other candidates to meet before your engagement with John is solidified."

Sherlock's father made a noise that was altogether disapproving. "John is heir to the throne - a right king, that is - properly situated and educated. What more do you seek? What more do you want for him? As it stands I believe John would be more suitable for Mycroft. The joining of two lands, two kings."

"Enough!" Misses Holmes slammed both hands on the table, startling both Mycroft and Sherlock. "Enough! I will not listen to you a moment longer. We may have wed out of circumstance but I will not stand by as my children are forced to do the same. I've met your demands, the suitors are wealthy upperclass with status and commendable repute. What more do _you_ want?"

"Perhaps for you to stop coddling Sherlock and outrightly ignoring Mycroft. He is your eldest, need I remind you."

"Yet you do the same with Mycroft."

"I am preparing him fo the responsibilities that come with running a nation. Perhaps he would like to feel a mother's love as well, ay?"

"Silence!"

"Who do you think you are addressing?" Mister Holmes yelled standing up and throwing the handcrafted glass teapot off the table. Sherlock watched as it shattered upon impact with the floor, the tea spilling out and spreading. "I am not one of your lackeys, to be told what to do. You never have been very good at staying your tongue."

Misses Holmes ran off, hands holding her face and Mister Holmes retreated to his study. Something that their dad said got to him though, "Why doesn't Mummy spend time much with you?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I don't know." he withheld a somewhat bitter, 'because she's always spending time with _you_.'

* * *

After they returned John had retreated to his room with Harry and sat down at his hardly used study. He pulled out a pen and some fancy paper with pressed flowers attached to it and sat thinking. Yet he had no idea what to write. "Harry..."

"No, I'm not helping you. You tell your soon-to-be that you're running away, never to be heard from or seen again."

"He's only four-"

"But an awfully bright four at that. I have never seen before a child so intelligent. Besides, he won't be four forever, if not now, he'd understand eventually."

"It's not as if I am leaving him at the alter Harry..."

"Perhaps not, but will he see it that way?" he hadn't thought about that, but it was true. He hadn't factored anything in past running away from responsibility with his sister.

John put down the pen. "I think you're forgetting the key factor in adventure. Nothing is supposed to be planned."

"Well we will have to throw some kind of plan together, lest our plans fall through to only remain words. I mean you don't have to-"

"I am going. But promise me you will wait? Neither of us are ready, we'd only end up lost and then sold back for ransom or something to that effect."

Harry bit her lip in thought but quickly agreed. "Okay, it is a promise then."

* * *

After things had settled down they more or less returned to business as per usual. Mycroft was absorbed in his lessons, their father was yet still in his study pondering over some or other legal documents, and their mum had gone to tea with a few of her noblewomen friends. Before she had left though she had asked of Sherlock to discern which suitor of the ones shown he wanted to meet next. There were three remaining. Lestrade, Anderson, and the teenager he had later learned to be Mike Stramford. Since Lestrade was the closest he decided to go with him. He could not stand to bear the thought of another long carriage ride for at least some days.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock jumped at his brother's voice; Mycroft casually strode in.

"Yes, you quite nearly gave me a fatal fright." Sherlock frowned.

Mycroft brushed his words off. "If you frown too often you'll soon find your face cemented that way."

"Will not, stop lying!"

"A permanent frown..." Mycroft trailed off thoughtfully, "Wonder if that would affect your standing with John?"

"No it - wait, is that true?" Mycroft smirked and chose then to walk out. "Hey! You have yet to answer my question. Mycroft! Mycroft!"

Sherlock's pouting lasted all of a minute until his attention was pulled to outside where it was snowing. The curly haired boy stared in awe and threw the windows open, breathing in the chill.

* * *

John was on the roof. It was the first time he had done something so reckless. He had climbed out of his window and scaled the castle structure, pulled himself up the intricate lattice work and now he was atop the highest peak. The air was chilly and he shivered, having forgone a coat. This felt adventurous. He was already taking risks in preparation for his escape.

And then it began snowing, the sun setting cast an illusion of heaven.

John looked one last time at the setting sun and turned around to climb his way back through his window. Th snow that had fallen there however melted as his boots pressed down onto it, making his footing unstable.

John slipped slightly but with nothing but sleek roofing to grab hold of lost his footing. And that was all it took; he fell, from the top of the castle's second highest tier.


End file.
